— untranslated —
distance-blue beside bruise-purple.
a grammar of colour
too small for the tongue.
under glass
the wing loosens into symbols —
tiny scales,
inked one against another,
like handwriting
meant for a species
with better eyes.
microscope-blue.
pollen-yellow.
cathedral-red.
the whole wing
a sentence
still trying to become readable.
i lean closer.
even the damaged places
say something.
a torn edge.
missing colour.
the quiet stutter
where flight once was.
perhaps butterflies
have always been speaking.
not in sound —
in arrangement.
light beside shadow.
ember-red beside dusk-violet.
and humans,
arriving centuries late,
keep calling it beauty
because we do not know
how else to pronounce
what we cannot translate.
— atlas —
under magnification
the butterfly wing becomes geographical.
distance-blue opening beside tide-green,
a small ocean stitched
to ember-red land.
there are borders here —
stormwater purple
bleeding softly
into dusk-pink,
as if colour itself
cannot remain contained.
tiny scales overlap
like countries on old maps,
each one touching another
through fragile edges.
i trace the wing carefully.
here:
river-blue.
here:
volcanic gold.
here:
a dark bruise of midnight
where the colour thickens
like weather gathering.
perhaps flight
is only another form
of migration.
perhaps every wing
carries an atlas
of places too small
for humans to name.
the butterfly does not know
it is holding continents.
does not know
its body resembles
the earth viewed from impossible height —
oceans folding into deserts,
coastlines dissolving,
storms moving silently
through colour.
under glass
the whole wing trembles slightly.
and suddenly
i remember
how all maps
are made by creatures
trying desperately
to understand
where they are.
— reliquary —
under the microscope
the butterfly wing resembles
religious art.
cathedral-blue.
incense-gold.
wine-dark crimson
pressed beside
the pale pink
of candle-soft roses.
tiny scales overlap
like pieces of stained glass
held together
by impossible patience.
light moves through them slowly.
for a moment
the wing becomes a cathedral window
small enough
to rest on a fingertip.
i think of medieval painters
grinding colour into powder,
praying over blue pigments
more expensive than gold.
how carefully humans arrange beauty
when trying to reach god.
and here —
without prayer,
without churches,
without human hands —
the butterfly has done it again.
distance-blue beside ember-red.
stormwater violet beside pollen-yellow.
the quiet extravagance
of something alive
not knowing it is holy.
under glass
the wing keeps glowing.
not loudly.
the way candles do.
the way old saints do
in paintings darkened by time.
and suddenly
it feels possible
that worship began this way —
someone looking closely
at a small beautiful thing
and running out of language.